Lost Cause
by Sultar
Summary: This is set after Batman:Murderer. Dick can't come to terms with how easily Batman brushed him aside.


I stared silently at the softly shifting shadows, trying to put off what was to come. I knew who was behind me; the darkly glaring gaze, the enclosing blanket of black, those were such a constant to my life. I knew who he was, but I didn't acknowledge him. I was soaked to the skin, battered, bruised, and this time just so plain _tired_. And I guess. . . I guess I just couldn't take this. Not now. Not anymore.

Maybe he _had_ changed. Alfred assured some time last week that he had. Hell, even Babs gave me this full hearted smile and blabbered on about him checking up on her dad. And Cassie getting a birthday present? I mean, yeah, fine, she doesn't even _touch_ necklaces, much less shimmering silvery pieces like that, but this time it was definitely the thought that counted. So I guess he had changed. But, I don't know. . . I just don't know.

"Dick." The dark baritone had softened somehow, become a little more unsure, a little more hesitant. I didn't turn around even as I heard him taking off his mask.

"No. Don't take it off." I kept my voice even, cool, distant. There used to be a time when I never could, when I'd cave and beg and plead for him to even notice me. When I'd lap up any praise and apology he'd send my way. Not now. Now it was frightening, even, how easy coldness came to me. And I knew I had to talk to him with the mask. So he could be just as cold and just as distant.

"Dick," he said again, confused perhaps. I wasn't supposed to do this. I was supposed to understand him. But I didn't care. I just didn't care.

"You know how sometimes there comes to a point where you just don't care anymore? When something's given and taken so many times that you just don't want it anymore?

I was talking so softly, as much as to myself as to him. But he knew what I was talking about. Robin. Those beautiful years when I could just be with him, and talk and smile and maybe even make him give a laugh. How easily he took that away from me. How he gave me his trust and then chose Jean Paul Valley over me as successor. And now this.

"And I guess this time. . . this time I just don't want to try again."

Did I say that out loud? I didn't care. I could feel, rather than see, the faintest tremble from him. And I knew that there used to be a time when I'd kill myself to have to be the cause of this. When he'd inflicted so much more.

"Go." That was me, too.

"Dick, I. . . I-" I could see him fumbling, and I knew that this was the time when I was supposed to save him from the apology, say that it was fine and I knew that he didn't mean it. But I didn't.

"No. You know what? I'm so tired and _sick_ of being taken in and stepped over and thrown out all over again. And then, and then just being expected to crawl back and lap up any stupid apology you'd give, or any reason or excuse and _anything_! And you know what? I JUST DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE!"

I could feel my voice growing and growing but I didn't care. I was way past the point of caring.

"No," I whispered bitterly, "don't ask me to try again. I don't feel like being shoved away anymore. Being the little afterthought. The little annoying chore. Well, guess what, don't even worry about me anymore. And I guess maybe, one day, I'll stop worrying about you."

"No! Dick, you mean mo-" His voice never had the slightest hint of feeling in it. Now it was full of emotion: pain, denial, desperation.

"Please, just go." My voice didn't falter, and if it was broken, at least it did not break.

". . .Dick. . ." The name was now a whisper, as much a plead as Bruce –and it _was_ Bruce –could make it.

I shut my eyes, and steeled myself.

"It's Nightwing."

He shrank back as if struck. I could feel the sudden creak of wood, hear the sharp intake of breath, and then. . .

And then he was gone, fleeing back into the shadows that meant more to him than I ever could.

a few weeks later

I hadn't seen Alfred since then. I told myself that it was because it would hurt him, or that he'd be too angry to see me, but I think that it was really because I was just too scared to even look him in the eye.

So when he ambushed me in my own apartment, carrying a plastic bag of what I was guessing to be my favorite pancakes, I think I had the right to be seriously afraid. And maybe that's why it took me all of five minutes to walk those last dozen steps and answer the door.

"Master Richard. Never in my life have I known you to keep visitors waiting, much less elder ones such as me." The British accent came familiar and even soothing to me.

"Er. . . I was. . . taking a shower, Alfred," I mumbled sheepishly.

"Which explains, young sir, the lack of any trace of dampness in your hair," he sniffed the characteristic Alfred-sniff and I found myself left with nothing to say.

"You look terrible, if I may be so bold as to say. Have you had no sleep at all, lately?" Alfred accused rather than questioned. Or at least I took it as an accusation, because I wasn't quite willing to answer the question.

Well, I mean, what can I say? I just told my dad –and yes he really was a dad to me –not to even think of me again. I'd think that that could lose me a few hours sleep. Even though even Clancy had scolded that the shadows around my eyes were comparable to the black hole in the galaxy. Mind you, I've _seen_ the galaxy, and I've _seen_ the black hole, and the hole is actually quite tiny compared to the whole big thing.

"Busy nights, Alfred," I muttered instead, helping him in and relieving him of his burden.

"You _have_ got a microwave this time, I hope," he called as he strode into the kitchen, "ah –good. This should do. It is merely a matter of getting all this –Master Richard!"

I had the decency to slink –I had decided over crawl –into the kitchen looking very pathetic.

"Master Richard you do **not** put cereal in a microwave!"

"But Alfred. . ." _I was trying to have a hot breakfast_. Suddenly my excuse didn't seem so reasonable after all. And Alfred was still giving me that _look_.

"Yes, Alfred," I mumbled instead, feeling very much back in the manor in six inch long baby blue sneakers. Yes, baby blue sneakers. Of all days, why did I have to try this now?

So. The pancakes went in the microwave. The cereal went out. I had my hot breakfast. Minus out the embarrassment, it was actually quite good. Until, of course. . .

"Why?"

"Mmph?" I knew the question even as I avoided it. But being Nightwing had taught me when to avoid and when avoidance was impossible. And I knew it was impossible now.

I sighed, turning away. I knew my voice was bleak enough to scare braver ones than Alfred.

"He chose it over me, Alfred," I had thought that my voice would be dead enough to cover the hurt.

"I always thought that maybe I meant something to him. You know, that maybe it would take a struggle to decide between salvation and, well, son. And he just. . ."

The image flashed back. Cold, dark, cutting. The words, that had taken more than one nightmare to sink in.

"'It's over'," Alfred said, voicing the memory, "But is that not what you want, young sir?"

"Of course not! You know as well as I do that. . ."

"You ended it," he pointed out quietly, "and that is a fact that _I_ must live with as well as you."

Alfred stood suddenly, weariness overcoming him and giving him the years otherwise hidden to the eye. I guess that's what really drove everything in. Alfred. Looking so old and tired and _sad_. Looking as if his two sons had. . . well, you know.

"But do I mean so little to him?"

"What do you mean you mean so little to him! Master Richard sometimes you are the only one who brings a bit of meaning into his life! Shall I tell you where he is now? That he is with Doctor Leslie after taking too many a risk, and uncaring as it is? That he can barely look me in the _face_?" His voice rose to just short of a shout before dropping back into a whisper, "you hurt him more than you can know, Master Richard. I think that you should realize that."

He turned and strode towards the door, pausing before he left to look me in the eye.

"I thought better of you."

And then he was gone.

break

It was nighttime. I should be suited up, prowling the streets and doing the whole super hero thing. And instead I was standing here staring at my old, green pixie boots in the closets.

God, those words had hurt.

What was I doing here? Bludhaven needed me. The filthy rooftops were at my beck and call and even now I heard the noise of steel on glass.

So what was I doing here?

He'd hurt me.

I'd hurt him.

Somehow I don't think that we really share the usual father-son relationship. But that doesn't matter now. Somehow I don't think normal kids have fathers who spend their nights pretending to be a bat. Then again, I really don't think normal kids play at being robins and go around kicking butts of every bad guy in arkham.

And somehow, I think I'm going mad.

Finally, though, I did suit up. Mask and black boots and all.

I got in the car. And I headed for Gotham.

Gotham was dark that night; darker than usual, that is. Dark and silent, with the steady stream of steam out of factories. I always hated that –though granted, Bludhaven was to Gotham like a mud hole to Fairyland.

The gargoyle wasn't one of Bruce's favorite spots, but Detective Me figured that if even Alfred knew he was at the gargoyle's, he must have been staying there a lot.

A lot as in hours? Or as in nights?

Was I _ever_ going to stop worrying about him?

I landed there, making sure he heard the sound of boot on gravel. I didn't expect him to say any word of welcome, which was just as well, since he didn't. Many think that it's because he's just not human enough for that, but I don't think so. Honestly, I think that it's because he just doesn't know how. I mean, going all hell-bent on learning to be Batman doesn't really give a lot of time to develop social skills. But there I go again, making my excuses. As always.

Another, simpler reason? He was pissed.

". . .Batman?"

Inwardly I winced. 'Batman'? This was going to help the conversation loads.

Give me some credit, though; his reply was not much better. I mean, come on, I think I merit something more than a turned back.

"Have you ever noticed that when you say you want to talk to me, it's always you doing the talking and me just having to listen? And when I want to talk to _you_, it's always me _trying_ to talk and you _not bothering_ to listen?"

Did I say_ that_ out loud?

Shit.

I sighed then. That was me being a jerk.

"Sorry. . . I guess that was uncalled for," I apologized softly, "but couldn't you at least even _look_ at me?"

Bruce turned –slowly –around, cowl in place and cape firmly held around him.

"I'm looking. Go on."

Maybe this was useless. How to go on when he's like that?

"I guess I just came here to say. . . I'm sorry. I was a prick. Don't know what came ove-"

"No."

His voice came soft as graveled road and I looked at him askance.

"I. . .I understand if you wish to break all ties with me. And I know –I know I haven't been very easy to stick with. Even when you've always been there I –well, there's only so much a person can stand."

Standing here, hearing him thinking so little of his company. . . when I'd kill to be in it for a while. . .

"But before you go I just want you to know: you mean. . .more to me than you'll ever know. I think you should know that. And also. . . I'm proud of you. Prouder of you than anyone else –or anything else in my life. I think –I'd like you to know that, too."

Bruce stood to do his little vanishing act even as I grabbed his cape to stop him.

"No –stop. Bruce. . .I," I closed my eyes as I hunted for the words, "I don't want to stay away from you and I don't want _not_ to know you. And, and, well, I can't say I _didn't_ mean anything I'd said. . .but. . ."

Here it came. The biggie. Maybe now he'd keel over and faint.

"I love you. As a mentor. As a _dad_. As the big cool guy who'd always be there for me. And. . .yeah. I guess that's it. Not much of a speech, is it?"

Even with my eyes closed I could feel him smile.

"It's a speech," he said softly, "And. . .thank you, D-Nightwing."

Nightwing. He still held to my demand. Well, _that_ I could remedy.

I opened my eyes. And smiled.

"It's Dick."


End file.
